


Imagination

by BazinMousqueton



Series: The Body and the Battle [6]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Athos's Scarf, Athos's scar, Blindfold mention, Canon Era, Deepthroating (in Athos's imagination), Established Aramis/Porthos, Explicit Sexual Content, Gag mention, Guilt, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Fixation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Religion/confession mention, Those feelings are mostly angst, With a side order of shame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 22:11:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9848444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BazinMousqueton/pseuds/BazinMousqueton
Summary: In which Athos tries not to think about what Porthos and Aramis might be doing with his scarf. And fails. And masturbates.Or: Athos is a disastrous mess of angst and oral fixation, and finds fantasising about Porthos and Aramis therapeutic. (Don't try this at home. Or maybe do, but only as part of a balanced healthcare and wellbeing programme.)The fics in this series are chronological but standalone -- there's no need to read the earlier ones to enjoy this.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kimannebb](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimannebb/gifts).



> This is kindof fanfic of my own fic, sorry folks. kimannebb left a comment on "[Brotherhood](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7828912)" (a fic in which Porthos borrows Athos's scarf for blindfolded sex with Aramis) that made me think about how Athos might have spent that night. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks to kimannebb for leaving lots of lovely comments on this series and tempting me back into posting fic. I hope you enjoy this!
> 
> Set after 1x05 (Homecoming).

Athos paced up and down his apartment, next to the bed, a pewter goblet in one hand and the dregs of a bottle of wine in the other. His boot heels clicked against the flagstones, loud in the night's near-silence. A single candle burnt low on the windowsill.

He should be asleep. He'd left Le Tambour Royal hours ago and walked the streets of Paris, trying to tire himself out. Trying to drive the unwanted (wanted) (so desperately wanted) thoughts from his mind.

He poured the last of the wine into his goblet and dropped the bottle. It clattered to the floor and rolled under his bed. He put his hand to his neck. Touched bare skin.

_Why did Porthos need my scarf?_

Images flickered through Athos's mind. 

...Porthos in the tavern, watching intently as Athos unwound the scarf... 

...Porthos and Aramis leaving together, the scarf tight around Porthos's neck...

...Porthos naked but for the scarf...

...Aramis naked, his wrists bound by the scarf...

...Porthos blindfolded...

...Aramis gagged...

Athos sucked in a deep breath. He flicked his tongue over the scar on his top lip and shivered. His fantasies had always been... oral. Anne had said--

\--and his mind shied away from the thought of her--

\--while his mouth filled with her taste. He shut his eyes, remembering licking and biting his way up her legs. Burying his face between her thighs. Pressing his tongue into her folds. She'd liked the feeling of his scarred lip on her clit, its taut inflexibility pushing her over the edge. 

Could Porthos like it too? If he wrapped his lips around Porthos's cock, would his friend enjoy the contrast between soft lips and the line of corded scar tissue? 

Could Aramis want to kiss him, flawed as he was?

Was it shameful to wonder? To imagine? To dream?

Anne had said--

He remembered when shame had been a simple thing. He and Thomas had sniggered together about the engravings they'd found in their father's library, and about the impure thoughts and acts they confessed to the parish priest each week. They repented, said acts of contrition, and sinned again, neither of them strong enough to resist the pleasure of taking himself in hand. 

Athos's cock twitched. He put down his goblet and unbuttoned his breeches. His cock strained against his drawers, pulling the laces tight. 

Even when he and Thomas had started experimenting -- him with a footman his own age, sucking the young man's cock while stroking himself; Thomas with the kitchen maids -- the guilt had remained quotidian. Expected. The priest had barely listened to Athos's confessions, unshocked by the homosexuality, seemingly bored by the repetitive nature of his sins. He'd grow out of it, the priest had said, one summer day when Athos could barely form the words of repentance; could think of nothing but finding somewhere private to sin again.

Anne had laughed at his lack of self-control; his rush to get his mouth on her and his hands on himself. She'd taught him restraint.

Athos put his hands behind his back. He would not touch his cock. Not yet. 

Anne had made shame something more than routine. It had become complicated, jagged; it stabbed him. After she'd killed Thomas, after he'd had her hung, he'd stopped going to confession. How could he confess impure thoughts for the murderer he'd sentenced to death? He chose to live with the guilt. To make it part of him. To chain it and bury it deep and wrap himself around it.

Anne had said--

Athos closed his eyes. He pictured Porthos and Aramis as he'd once come across them in the garrison stables: kissing deeply, Aramis pressing Porthos into the wall, his leg between Porthos's thighs; Porthos threading his fingers through Aramis's hair and moaning into the kiss.

Both in full leathers. 

Both entirely free of guilt.

Athos swallowed. He chewed his top lip. 

He re-imagined the kiss: Aramis shirtless, his braces hanging down from his waist. Porthos naked, grinding against Aramis's leather-clad thigh. 

No: Porthos naked except for Athos's scarf, curled around his neck. 

Athos unbuttoned his doublet and slid it off his shoulders. It fell to the floor. He stripped off his shirt. He pushed the first two fingers of his right hand into his mouth and sucked, lapping his tongue along their underside.

He pictured Aramis dropping to his knees in front of Porthos. 

...Porthos's erect cock...

...Aramis licking Porthos's full length...

...Porthos wrapping his hands in Athos's scarf and bringing it to his nose, breathing in Athos's scent...

...Aramis opening his mouth and sucking Porthos's cock...

Athos gasped around his fingers. He shoved a third finger in, hard, falling to his knees. What would it feel like to take Porthos in his mouth? To have Porthos filling him, Porthos's taste on his tongue? Porthos choking him? 

He imagined Aramis taking Porthos deep into his throat. Porthos unwound Athos's scarf, looped it around the back of Aramis's head, and used it to hold Aramis still. Aramis relaxed, his body going limp. Porthos pulled out and shoved into him, hard. Shoved in again.

Athos let his head fall back. He pushed his fingers as deep as he could, fighting not to gag. He pictured Aramis's mouth wrapped around Porthos's cock.

Imagined his own lips on Porthos.

His heart pounded. His cock, constrained by his laces, throbbed. He rubbed his knuckles against his scar.

Anne had said--

Athos shook his head. 

He pictured Porthos close to coming. 

...Porthos pulling out of Aramis's mouth...

...Aramis protesting, trying to pull Porthos back in...

…Porthos panting, gasping...

...spending on Aramis's face...

...on his perfect beard...

...on his beautiful lips...

Athos spat his fingers out. He hurriedly unlaced his drawers and palmed his cock, his hand spit-slick. He closed his fist. 

He gasped.

He stroked himself as slowly as he could, running his hand up and down the full length of his shaft. His fingers tightened each time he reached the head of his cock. He cupped his balls in his left hand. He pictured Porthos kneeling to kiss Aramis. He moved his right hand faster, panting, accelerating to find the perfect rhythm. 

Arousal flooded through him. He dropped his head. His hair fell across his face; its ends teased his lips. He sucked a lock into his mouth, used his tongue to roll it across his scar.

He jerked his hips, fucking his clenched fist. He pictured...

...Porthos using Athos's scarf to wipe Aramis's face clean... 

...Porthos returning the scarf to Athos, reeking of spend and the beeswax Aramis used on his beard...

Athos moaned. He increased his pace, gripping himself tightly. His rhythm stuttered. Heat rushed up his body. His legs shook. 

He imagined kissing Aramis. Knowing Aramis's mouth had been on Porthos. Feeling Aramis's tongue on his top lip. Playing with his scar--

His cock jerked. He gasped as he came, his spend spurting warm over his hand and across the flagstones. The tension left his body. He felt--

No guilt.

Anne had said Athos was haunted by his scar; that he had fashioned his fantasies from guilt at his own imperfection. That he'd never be free of shame.

He raised his spend-covered hand to his mouth and licked. And felt--

No shame.

He imagined the chain of guilt inside him. One link opened. It dropped away. He breathed more easily than he had in five years.


End file.
